A monarch was creamed
on the radiator along the way,
splayed, dried, cooked
in summer and onward air.
I found her when I monkeyed
with the wiper fluid motor wire.

It’s a tight spot. We’ve all
been sandblasted, hosed, searching
for the right tool in the box
to perform that precise operation.

These things just happen. A burn
from an onion made hot
in turkey’s juicy sizzle
then fished out with a spatula
and not blown on long enough:
it went mostly into my mouth
and what hung out fought too hard
at last before going cool,
and caramelized. That is
it was made, naturally,
sweet, and brought finally forth
and all its fire’s now a part of my face.

Adam Deutsch studied at Hofstra and UIUC, and lives in San Diego. He has poems in Forklift, OH, Iron Horse Literary Review, Prick of the Spindle, Spinning Jenny, Thrush, Coconut, and elsewhere. He teaches college creative writing and composition, and is the publisher at Cooper Dillon Books.